


But First, We’ll Live

by miladyaryastark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Stark / Gendry Waters, F/M, Fluff, Post canon, Pregnancy, Pregnant Arya Stark, Pregnant Sex, Smut, Wedding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-03-06 03:29:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18842719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miladyaryastark/pseuds/miladyaryastark
Summary: After the Great Burning of King’s Landing, Arya takes Sandor’s advice and pledges to live.Living at Storm’s End, Arya and Gendry decide to marry to reunite the Starks scattered across Westeros.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since this fic started as a one shot and then continued, I figured we needed a short prologue of sorts to make the fic flow more naturally.
> 
> Enjoy! Kudos and comments are appreciated so much <3

_Gendry could see the thick smoke from miles away, days before reaching the city of King’s Landing. The city he had once lived in, once known like the back of his hand. The shop he had worked in, the ale houses he ate in when he had a few extra coppers, the shanty house he once had with his mother, all gone. Turned into smoke and ash. The smoke rose like a thick fog over the city, swirling and billowing in the winter winds. He couldn’t tell, as he sat atop his horse looking at his burning home, whether the little flakes of white that fell covering his hair and his new Baratheon leathers were snow or ash._

__

__

_Perhaps both, he thought, staring at what appeared to be a mixture of white snowflakes and grey soot covering the ground like a blanket. Her house colours, grey and white, soot and snow. He had always thought Arya’s house colours, displayed on their banners along with the imposing direwolf sigil, were beautiful. But the grey and white all around him was haunting._

__

__

_They rode on, and when they finally arrived at the city walls, there wasn’t a city to beyond them. Only piles upon piles of rubble and bodies, bodies so charred one would be forgiven for mistaking the piles of men, women and children for stone and ash. Bodies of little babes, old men, young women. Soldiers, Lannister and Stark, inn keepers, serving girls, armourers. People. People he may have once known. Gendry dismounted his horse along with Sansa and Brienne and followed them through the remnants of the city on foot. He stopped to be sick, but only dry heaved, coughing and spluttering. He felt dizzy. He felt disgusted. He felt a hand on his back-_

__

_“I’m sorry. I know how this must be for you.” He heard the soft voice of Lady Sansa. He couldn’t think of any words in reply._

_“She’s not here anymore, the dragon queen. We’re all safe now.” She reassured. He thinks she’s reassuring herself as much as anyone._

_“These people weren’t. All these innocent...all these innocent people...” He managed. She removed her hand from his back as he went to stand. She didn’t have a response for that. No one did._

***

_He found Arya in the Throne Room of the Red Keep. She was standing, unmoving, staring at the place where the Iron Throne had once been. Where the throne had stood for hundreds of years, with hundreds of Kings sat atop it. She was covered in ash and blood, and stood with her hand on a half destroyed pillar, to keep steady and upright. He didn’t have to speak, she heard him coming like she always did. She turned, and he watched as a single tear fell down her face, leaving a trail where the water washed the soot away and her skin could now be seen underneath._

_“I’m sorry I left,” She rasped, and coughed after speaking. “I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye.”_  
   
_He struggles not to run to her, instead he paces as fast as his feet will carry him without him sprinting through the hall. She lets go of the pillar and almost falls but he’s there, he’s there to catch her and she lets out a sob._

_“I’m sorry I couldn’t save them.”_

_He shushes her and cradles her in his arms. He forgets how small she is, sometimes._

_“I’m sorry,” the sobs came thicker and faster now, “I’m sorry I couldn’t, there was so much fire. So much smoke.”_

_They both sank to the ground and he held her while she cried, her body shaking uncontrollably. He didn’t know when he started crying with her, but he knows they sat there for a long time._

_***_

_“Ask me again.” She told him days after they reunited, after one of her brothers was made King and the other was exiled._

__

_“What?”_

_She pressed herself against him, making his breath catch in his throat. “Ask me again.”_

_He didn’t kneel this time, just took her in his arms. “I know you don’t want to be a Lady. I know you’re not ready to be a wife. But I love you, Arya Stark. And I told you that none of this would be worth anything if you weren’t with me. So be my family, live with me at Storms End. Or if not, I’ll renounce my titles, and we can go where you like. I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, Arya, I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”_  
   
_She kissed him, hard and sure. “I love you,” She’d breathed against his lips when she pulled back for a moment, “I will be your family. I want to live at Storm’s End with you.”_  
   
_“For true?”_

_“I want to make our world a better place than the one we grew up in. I want to do that, with you.”_

_***_

_It took them both a while to get used to Storm’s End. Arya resented the sticky warmth at first, but grew to appreciate the sun on her skin and the sound of the waves crashing into Shipbreaker Bay. The sound of the waves, along with Gendry’s embrace, helped lull her into a slumber on the nights that her dreams were unkind. The nightmares came often, nightmares of fire and blood, but when she woke up kicking and screaming there were always his arms to hold her and his words to calm her._

_He was still getting used to being a Lord. But she helped him everyday. How to use a fork, helped him with his numbers and letters, told the stuck up Lords of the Stormlands where to go if they were rude to him at petitions._

_He could get used to this, he thinks. Living there, with Arya. His pack, his family. He could get used to it easily._


	2. A Spring Storm

He had once forgotten what it felt like to share a bed with her. All those years ago on the road they slept in the same furs every night, and he always convinced himself it was for warmth, or so he could protect her from rapers or murderers. After she’d been taken by the Hound, he hadn’t shared her bed again til the night before the Battle against the Dead. If you could even call a pile of grain sacks a bed. But since the King’s Landing massacre, he’d slept by side her every night, and planned to do so for the rest of his life. He held her close when she had the nightmares that haunted her, and hushed her back to sleep. He’d held her close in other ways, too, like he’d dreamt while they’d been parted. 

It was a stormy night. The storm had raged for hours, the lightening the only brightness the Stormlands had seen all day. Thunder cracked and boomed like the Old Gods and the New were fighting in the dark sky. Strong winds gathered the sea and sent it crashing against the rocks that held up the huge tower of Storm’s End, the tower that held their chambers. Rain fell heavy and tapped on the windows of their room in a steady rhythm, like the banging of steel in his forge. Their fire was burning, not that they needed its warmth, despite the rain the Stormlands retained a sticky, muggy heat throughout most seasons. But the fire provided much needed light, as he could barely see her when he walked into their chambers for the evening. He and Davos had been sending ravens to different Lords and Ladies of the Realm all afternoon and his eyes and head hurt. She was laid on their featherbed all wrapped up in their silk sheets, smiling up at him.  


“Long day, m’lord?” Arya asked as he yawned and slipped his black leather jerkin off.  
“Exhausting. I don’t know how you Lords and Ladies do it.” He quipped and made his way towards their bed where she laid.  
“You should know, you are one now. Even though you like to pretend you’re still just a blacksmith whose only worry in the world is what sword you’re going to craft-”  
He cuts her off with a quick kiss, which she deepens by wrapping her hands around his neck, pulling him closer until he’s atop her and she’s pressing herself against him. He stills above her, his knees either side of her thighs kneeling on all fours with his hands resting by her head. She takes her finger and traces it gently along his cheekbone, and then his jaw. Her little finger catches on his stubble as it makes its way across his cheek while she stares into him as though she can see his soul. Maybe she can. Even in the dim firelight he can see her eyes, grey, intense and never still, like the storm wailing outside. He swears he can see swirling silver clouds and huge pale waves crashing against the shore in those eyes.

He moves his hand to cup her face and leans in to take her lips again, using the tip of his tongue to follow the line of her bottom lip, coaxing her into opening her mouth. She clutches at his tunic and gladly obeys, parting her lips as his tongue finds it's way into her mouth. She grabs his thick, black hair between her fingers, gripping it to pull him closer still, moaning softly into his mouth. 

His lips leave hers to leave a line of chaste kisses along her jaw, and she gasps as his lips slide wetly down to her throat, kissing and suckling her neck softly. He whispers sweet nothings into the skin between her neck and collarbone, saying her name over and over, “Arya, Arya, Arya”, like a soft prayer or a plead or somewhere in between. He pushes the sheets that cover her body aside and moves his hand down to brush over the soft curls and silken skin between her legs. The muscles in her thighs tremble with tension as he strokes her slow and easy, letting the sound of the thunder mixed with her panting breath guide his rhythm. 

At a crash of lightening that brightens the room for a second before disappearing and plunging them back into firelight darkness, she grabs the back of his neck and pulls him down so that she is sat atop him, straddling him like the night he had her for the first time. They had moved with such urgency and desperation then, now they acted slowly, lazily, enjoying the taste of each others mouths and kissing in time with the rain thrumming on the window. She closes her eyes for just a second, and rocks her hips back and forth into his hand. She slowly unlaces his breeches and allows herself to sink down onto him, gasps as he fills her completely, and _Gods_ she doesn’t know how they refrain from doing this all day. He has a hand on her hips, guiding her, and the other hand is lower, his thumb on her sweet spot, just how she likes, and it’s not long before she’s trembling and cries out his name at her climax, the sweet sound drowned out by growling thunder outside the stone walls. He follows soon after, and she collapses on top of him.  


They almost fall into a slumber listening to the thrashing of the ocean waves on the shore, but a thought forces his heavy eyes open,  
“Shall I call the Maester to get your moon tea?”  
She lifts her head to look at him, leaving a tiny trace of dribble on his shoulder.  
“What if...what if I don’t take it this time? What if I stop taking it...altogether?” She looks sheepish and shy, a sweet and scarce combination on her usually steady face. He knows what this means, what this means for her and what this implies for them both. And he loves her for it.  
“I’d like that very much.”


	3. Trying for Triplets

Ever since she’d asked Gendry if he’d mind if she stopped taking moon tea, he’d tried to make that babe as much as possible. Morning, noon, evening, all night. She quipped he was going to put triplets inside of her, as after all, the seed was strong, or so she’d heard. He’d told her he wouldn’t mind triplets, but she’d protested,  
“Think of the birth, Gendry! They’d rip me open.” She shivered thinking of the horror.  
“They wouldn’t, they wouldn’t come out all at once, but one at a time.”  
“Since when do you know so much about giving birth, hm?” She asked him that day, when she was leaned on the anvil of the forge while he worked away at some steel.  
“I’ve been speaking to the Maester.”  
Her face turned bright red.  
“Gendry! We’re not supposed to be telling anyone that we’re trying. What if I can’t even have children? You’ve seen my scars.” Her words started as a scold and became increasingly sad.  
“I know that, so I asked him if it would be possible for us, and he says he thinks so, doesn't see why not. I just asked if he has any tips, good positions-“  
“Gendry!” She swore her face was the colour of the fire that roared in the furnace, _“positions?!”_  
He’d chuckled at her horrified face, and kissed her on her sooty nose before wiping the dust away with his thumb. He encircled her in his strong arms. “You will be able to have children, I know it. And, if not, we could adopt some orphans from the village. Give them a new life here with us.”  
“Okay, m’lord.” She mumbled into his chest.

She had only just realised that she wanted children a few weeks prior. She’d always assumed when she was younger that she’d be forced to bare children to some high Lord, be used as a broodmare to ensure his name and house lived on. So naturally when she was younger she thought her rejection of being a typical Lady meant the rejection of children too. 

But Gendry was different. He never once asked her for anything, never expected anything from her. So she was faced with a choice, something she’d never truly expected to have. And she’d decided that she wanted a little Stark-Baratheon baby, chubby legged and dark haired and blue eyed, running around the castle and playing on the beaches of Storm’s End. She wanted Ser Davos to feel like a Grandfather, as it was widely accepted he may as well be Gendry’s father. She wanted him to hold a babe in his arms, the first since Shireen, and she hoped perhaps his heart would feel a little lighter for it. She wanted Sansa, Jon and Bran to have a niece or nephew, she wanted to grow their ever shrinking family. She remembered how she had loved growing up in a household full of siblings and wanted that for her children, she wanted a pack, a family.

More than anything, she knew Gendry would be a wonderful father. He worried so often he wouldn’t be, due to the absence of his own. But she saw how he was with the small folk children when he didn’t know she was spying him. Teaching both boys and girls how to forge steel, how to hold a bow, how to fight with a play sword. She’d seen him lift a little girl onto his shoulders so she could pick a particularly juicy red apple from a tree, and she watched as he spun her around and around in circles while she squealed with sheer delight. Everyone saw how gentle and kind he was with the cook’s children, while he sat and tried all the food they attempted to make him. One time, he looked so appreciative and complimented their ginger biscuits so enthusiastically that she had to try one too, only to find them rock hard and bitter, and had to refrain from spitting it out. He had to shoot her a glare to remind her to act just as pleased as he had done.

But it was only once she came to the realisation that she wanted to grow her pack that she remembered the deep scars on her lower abdomen, and she felt a strange sense of loss for something she never had. But they tried regardless, hoping and praying that the Gods would be good and her wounds wouldn’t have done any permanent damage. 

“Want to try for quadruplets?” He asked her later that evening, sneaking up behind her while she bathed, squatting at the back of the tub and placing kisses on her cheek and neck from behind.  
“That’s a big word for you.” She japed playfully, already growing soft at the feeling of his lips on her body.  
He bites her softly on the wet skin where her neck meets her shoulder, “Oi,” he protested with a smile, “I know plenty of big words, thank you very much.”  
“Oh yes I’m sure you do, m’lord.”  
He came to the front of the tub so he was facing her, and she splashed foamy water at him.  
“Hey! You've soaked me! I'm wet through! What sort of lady are you?"  
"The bad kind!" she laughs, as he begins to remove each sopping wet item of clothing.  
“What am I going to do if our children have your wolfs blood?” He finally took of his small clothes and joined her in the bath.  
“Excuse me, I was having a peaceful soak before you arrived with talk of four babes.” She put on her best pretend annoyed face.  
“Sorry, m’lady.” He leaned forward in the tub and held her face in both his hands, and kissed her soft and true.  


_Oh well,_ she thought, _I suppose we could have quadruplets._ She climbed atop him, drawing her thigh over his lap the way he liked when they bathed together. He grabbed her wet hair in his big blacksmith’s hands and gave a soft tug to prompt her into parting her lips as he deepened the kiss. She begins washing his body with a cloth as their mouths worked together in unison, partly to wash the forge soot off him and partly to have her hands run over every inch of him, his broad chest, muscled arms and toned stomach. _Gods, she is lucky. _He responds to her touch by twitching and shifting beneath her, silently but not subtly begging her to move her hips ever so slightly so he can enter her. She obliges. She rocks her hips slowly so the water doesn’t spill over the tub, but he gets greedy when he knows she’s close and takes matters into his own hands, grabbing her hips and moving her up and down. She catches his face between her hands to press their foreheads together as her pleasure takes her and leaves her shaking, and he follows soon after. She hopes this was one of the positions the Maester suggested.__


	4. Lord and Lady Baratheon

Gendry watched as Arya furrowed her brow in frustration. She was bent over their table in the hall, reading a letter that a raven had brought just that morn.  
“Bad news?” He asked sitting beside her on the long wooden benches that lined the large room.  
“Sansa. She writes to say there’s still no news from Jon. Bran has granted him a royal pardon, he can leave Castle Black if he wishes.” She sighed in frustration.  
“He feels guilty, Arya. He can’t face anyone.”  
“He can face me. I as good as told him to do what he did.” She put her face in her hands like she often did to hide when she was getting teary. “It’s been months since I last saw him. I miss him.”  
He pulled her close, “I know you do. Why don’t you send a raven? Tell him to come to Storm’s End.”  
“I miss all of them, though, not just Jon.” She sighed, staring out to sea from the large windows at the end of the hall. “I haven’t seen any of them since we left the capital. Or what’s left of it. I just wish there was a way to command them all here.”  


Gendry thought for a moment. “Command them here by order of Lord and Lady Baratheon.”  
She turned to look at him with sad, confused eyes, hearing the emphasis in his voice, “I’m not a Baratheon.”  
“But you could be.”  
She stared at him, searching his face for the meaning behind his words. She opened her mouth as if to speak and then shut it again, looking like a Tully fish. Her eyebrows twitched in confusion. He continued, “what I mean is...why don’t we...get married? Look, I know we’ve said we don’t need to say a few words in front of a tree to prove that we love each other, and we don’t. But what better way to bring your family together again? Sansa loves festivities. And that’s an order even Jon couldn’t ignore.”

She thought for a moment about what he was suggesting. No one in the Stormlands expected them to marry. Davos had mentioned a few times that it would be wise, but Arya never felt it was necessary to say some vows to prove her feelings. Their love was proven by the fact he had been her best friend since she was one and ten, and her lover since she was a woman grown. Proven by the fact that even though she was currently pretending to be nonchalant about not taking moon tea after he loved her, she secretly prayed to the Old Gods and the New for a child with Baratheon blue eyes to form in her belly. She imagined what it would be like for all her family to gather with her under the Storm’s End weirwood tree, for Sansa to help her get ready and Jon to walk her to meet Gendry. It seemed strange, like a silly thing Sansa might dream, but she suddenly couldn’t shake the idea of standing across from Gendry and declaring the love that she felt so deeply to all who would listen. He was right, the one thing that could bring her family together was a wedding. 

She had been silent for a while, and she looked back to his face and found his eyes. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”  
He kissed her soft and true and leant his forehead on hers. He made to move away when she gently held his face close to hers for a moment longer and whispered, “I’m not just doing this for them. I’m doing this for me, too. For us.”  
“Really?”  
“Yes. Even if they can’t come, I want to do that anyway.”  
“Good. I don’t think I could take two rejected proposals from Arya Stark”.  
She whacked him on the arm, “I thought I was going to die in Kings Landing. You know why I couldn’t accept you then.”  
“I know” he said softly.  
“But I’m accepting now.”  
“Thank the Gods.”  
“A wedding is probably the only thing that could unite my divided family.”  
“Guess I’m not so stupid after all.”  
“You have your moments.”  
“I’ll get Davos to write them-“  
“No, it’ll write. I want them to know it came from me. If it’s not my hand they won’t believe it” she quipped with a grin.  
He placed his large hands on either side of her waist and pulled her closer to him for another kiss.  


“And if they still don’t come?” She asked quietly when their lips parted.  
“They will. The only reason Sansa hasn’t visited yet is because she’s busy ruling the North, as is Bran ruling the rest of Westeros. And Jon...Jon holds a grief in him now that none of us can understand.”  
“We all hold grief, Gendry. I hold it for the Hound, for Beric, for my mother and father, for Robb and Rickon.” She protested fiercely.  
“Aye, but you never caused them to pass, Arya.” He brushed a thumb over her cheek, remembering all that she had lost in the wars.  
“I’m only mad at him because he’s my favourite of them all. My favourite and he won’t leave that wretched, broken wall to see us.” She growled, a stubborn scowl etched on her face.  
“He loves you. All of them do. They want to see you regardless of whether you’re wed or not. Now stop scowling, or when the wind changes it’ll stick”  
“Good.” She says, deepening her brows, crossing her eyes and sticking her tongue out. Sometimes she was no different than when they’d been on the road together. He blew gently on her face, causing her to blink, “there. Now you’re stuck like that.”  
She shrugged, “it’s you that has to marry me like this.”  
He brushed his lips against her forehead and mumbled into her hair, "Beautiful.”  
“Liar” she said and finally relaxed her face.

Gendry studied her face for a moment. She really was beautiful. He remembered the first time he realised that she was, at some Inn on the King’s Road when they travelled with the Brotherhood, possibly The Peach. He’d known she was a girl for some time, but this was the first time she’d truly looked like one. The serving maids had scrubbed the muck off her face to reveal freckles on her skin, and they’d combed her hair which had grown longer, he’d noticed, and curled tighter by the day. She was dressed like a girl, all laced and pretty. She had smiled at him, and he realised there was nothing horsey or childish about her smile anymore. Her rosy lips were full and sweet, and her wide and stormy eyes blinked at him through long lashes. The serving girls had added a soft blush to her cheeks, and she looked pretty as a winter rose. Arya was always pretty to him, though. Even with her big toothy smile, wearing his oversized jerkin with dirt thick in her hair. 

Now, a woman of nine and ten sat before him, her Stark features more prominent and beautiful with age, large grey eyes, a long freckled nose and high, deep cheekbones, remnants of the hunger of their youth. She wasn’t dressed like a girl anymore, in black leather riding breeches and his emerald green tunic, thin and light which suited the warm weather they’d been blessed with after weeks of storms. But this was how he liked her best. Wearing his tunics despite them being much too large for her, but they still somehow dipped with the curve of her waist and flowed outward at her small breasts, and with her wild hair tied in a simple Northern braid to keep it out of her face while she rode or sparred. If this was what her Aunt Lyanna had looked like, he understood why his father had started the rebellion. He’d fight a thousand wars for her. 

“What are you thinking about?” She asked.  
“I understand why Robert started his rebellion now. The Starks are irresistible.” He teased.  
She rolled her eyes, “Your father was infatuated with my aunt, he never loved her. My father said he only saw Lyanna’s beauty, and not the iron underneath.”  
“Aye, but I saw your iron first. You were Arry to me before you were Arya Stark.”  
She thought about this for a moment.  
“Well then you don’t have to start a war for me. I’m staying right here.” She planted a kiss on his nose and stood, “I’m going to get some ink and paper to write those invites.”


	5. The best gravy in the Seven Kingdoms

The last raven left the castle at noon and swooped over Wendwater River to reach the far corners of Westeros. One flew to the wall, others to Kings Landing, a much shorter journey, and some to Winterfell. _Let the wind take them quickly,_ Arya prayed, as she watched the last few birds fly with invitations clutched in their talons. It made her stomach flip and turn to think of people reading the contents of the letters, to learn of her engagement and to consider whether to journey to watch her and Gendry wed. 

They’d decided to be wed four moons from then, giving those invited enough time to arrange the travel and then make the journey. It would take Bran, if he accepted the invite, only a few short weeks to travel to Storm’s End, and it would be even quicker if he took a boat from King’s Landing harbour to the small docks at Shipbreaker Bay. For Sansa, the trip from Winterfell on the Kings Road would take at least a month with favourable conditions. 

But Jon’s journey from Castle Black would be a long and treacherous one, and despite the long spring days, the light in the north still faded early, and would limit the time they could spend moving on the road. So it could take him up to two moons to reach Storm’s End. And the letter may not even reach Jon for a few weeks depending on where he is, Arya thought. She had heard stories that he travelled with the wildlings now, rather than carrying out his sentence at Castle Black. No one at the Wall bothered to tell him to do otherwise since he was pardoned by Bran, and he could now technically go wherever he pleased. He could be weeks deep in the Haunted Forest now, and not receive her letter until whenever he decided to return to the wall. That could be on her wedding day for all she knew. That could be never. She sighed heavily as the birds slipped out of sight and into the clouds above the Kingswood. Maybe she should have written five or six moons.

There was one person that they could tell straight away with no need for a raven; Davos. They found him sat in his large chambers that had become his home since Bran told him he wasn’t needed in the capital. His wife Marya came from Cape Wrath to live at Storm’s End with him, too. Davos was not required frequently in the capital, Bran had said that the master of ships was not truly needed as there were no ships to command anymore, and the rebuilding of a small fleet wouldn’t need overseeing by him. In fact, the fleet didn’t really need rebuilding at all now there was peace in the realm, but it would be done for the sake of providing jobs for the small folk. The King’s Council, it turned out, was all titles and no substance, with Brienne and Podrick residing mostly in Winterfell despite being in the Kingsguard. There was no real threat against Bran’s rule and Brienne had made an oath to serve a different Stark. Bronn spent all his time at his new home in Highgarden, and Sam, when not doing Maester work, spent his days with Gilly and their new babe, Jon. 

They told Davos and Marya that they were to wed in four moons time. Marya clapped and cried and started making plans about a huge feast and a lavish ceremony in the sept.  
“We want a small ceremony, in the Godswood in front of the heart tree.” Gendry told her, while she clung onto his arms and babbled about what Lords and Ladies to invite and what they would serve at the feast.  
“And we only want close family there.” Arya added. 

The woman’s kind face dropped and she took a quick step back from Gendry, “Oh! Of course you only want your family there...silly old me-“  
“Marya,” Gendry interrupted her and closed the gap between them again, “You and Davos are included when we say family.”  
Her eyes filled with tears and she flung her arms around Gendry’s neck, a sight that made Arya and Davos laugh due to Marya being half Gendry’s height. Davos himself sat quietly on the bed with watery eyes as Marya bawled loudly into Gendry’s jerkin.  
After a moment, he stood and walked to Arya whilst his wife continued to make a nose hanky out of Gendry’s clothes. He collected her in a warm, fatherly embrace and planted a soft kiss atop her head. “I’m happy for you both.” He was visibly holding back tears as he stepped back and held her face in his hands, his stubby fingers on her cheeks. “I couldn’t have made a better match myself!”  
He turned to walk to Gendry and Arya watched them awkwardly slap each other on the back as men do, before finally giving in to their emotions and pulling each other in for a true embrace. 

“You never knew your father,” said Davos, “and we lost five of our sons at the Battle of Blackwater. I’d like to think...”, his voice breaks and he tries to regain composure, “I’d like to think I’ve been something of a father for you, as you have been like a son to me.”  
Arya decided that if nothing else, the look on Gendry’s face at that moment will make this wedding worth it. She has only seen his face that happy when she told him she wanted to stop taking moon tea, or when he saw her again across Winterfell after the Long Night. Pure joy lit up his face and his smile reached his big blue eyes that were clouded with tears. 

“We would like elements of both Faith of the Seven ceremonies with traditional Northern ceremonies to combine our heritage.” Arya explained, “Gendry told me how Southern weddings work, and we like the idea of cloaking, except we’ll cloak one another, rather than just him cloaking me. And we’d like to be wed in the afternoon, not at night, so we can have a large feast afterwards with everyone who doesn’t attend the Godswood. But we don’t want a Septon, in the north the ceremony is officiated by the head of the groom's household...”  
“...so,” continued Gendry to Davos, “we would like to ask you to marry us.” 

The tears that had been welling in Davos’ eyes finally spilled over, “Aye, I’d be honoured to.” He managed, looking back and forth at them both with intense parental pride.  
“And who will give the bride away?” Asked Marya.  
“Hopefully Jon.” Arya replied, “I sent a raven asking him...if not I suppose I’m capable of walking myself to an old tree.” She attempted to make light of the situation that was deeply troubling her.  


“We have only two requests for the feast.” Said Gendry. “Firstly, you can invite whatever Lords and Ladies you like. Whoever we have to please, invite them. The more the merrier. But, we also want all the small folk in the village outside the castle invited too.”  
“A lovely idea, sweetlings,” said Marya, “but I’m afraid the great hall, though large, would not be big enough for the Lords and Ladies of Westeros and the smallfolk.”  
“We know,” Arya replied, matter-of-factly, “that’s why we shall have the feast outside, in the grounds of the main keep. We shall bring our benches and long tables outside, line them with candles and feast under the trees and stars.” Arya smiles at Gendry, remembering the song Tom Sevenstrings sang for them when they were children, “we are forest loves, after all.”  
“I’ll see it done.” Davos agreed fiercely, “and the second request?”  
“Please send a raven to the Inn on the Crossroads and write that Lord and Lady Baratheon command the cook, Hot Pie, to come and help to make our feast.”  
“Hot Pie?” Marya raised an eyebrow.  
“An old friend.” Shrugged Gendry.  
“And an excellent cook. Best gravy in the Seven Kingdoms.” Arya added.  
“Well, I suppose I best get started then.” Said Davos, finding a way to excuse himself so he could blow his nose and dry his eyes, with his wife following quickly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to @gendryxaryatrash for helping me with ideas for their wedding in this chapter!!


	6. The gift of home

It had been two moons since the ravens had been sent out across the Realm with invitations tied to their feet. Sansa had replied within the first week, writing of her greatest happiness that her sister was choosing to wed, and that of course she would attend the ceremony and the feast at Storm’s End. Her party, consisting of Brienne, Podrick, several serving maids, guards, and her closest handmaidens, Jeyne and Alys, would leave Winterfell just over a moon before the set date. Lord Yohn Royce would look over the North in her stead while she was gone. Lord Royce also mostly resided at Winterfell now, with Lord Robin Arryn of age to rule the Vale from the Eeyrie without a guardian. There would not be a Stark in Winterfell, Sansa wrote, but Lord Royce would look after it well in her absence. And besides, nothing threatened its stoney walls anymore. 

Bran’s reply had arrived that morn, on thick brown parchment paper and sealed with the royal stamp. The letter sat unopened on the table next to Sansa’s opened reply, written on linen scented like winter roses. Arya was afraid to read the letter in case it was a refusal. She had been the same with Sansa’s letter when it arrived, it sat unopened on her bedside for days til Gendry snatched it and opened it for her. She had already been sick once that morning for fear of opening it. 

She paced around the chambers, up and down, without taking her eyes off the paper on the desk. Bran would be perfectly justified in refusing the invite, he had the six Kingdoms to rule. She was worried all the same. Of course, it wasn’t even this letter she was most worried about. She had heard nothing at all from Jon, and she feared more than ever he simply wouldn’t receive her letter.

She turned on her heels again and continued pacing the room, her head in her hands. She was being stupid, she knew. Arya Stark, slayer of the Night King and Hero of Winterfell couldn’t open a letter. She shook her head, “fear cuts deeper than swords” she muttered. Syrio was right. She reached down to the table and picked up the letter, running her fingers across the wax seal. Silver wax engraved with a direwolf wearing a crown, the royal sigil. Sansa’s letter had been sealed with the same stamp, only hers bore a leaf print behind the wolf, a symbol of the weirwoods of the North, to differentiate between the sigils. 

Arya broke the seal with her shaking hands and hastily unravelled the brown paper.  


_“Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storms End and Princess Arya Stark of the Six Kingdoms and the North,”_ it read, and Arya knew this was Tyrion’s hand, not her brother’s, as he insisted on using proper titles,

_“We congratulate you on your engagement and write to accept your invitation of King Bran the Broken to the ceremony. We also accept the invitation of Grand Maester Samwell Tarly, his companion Gilly, and their sons Sam and Jon Tarly to the wedding feast. We shall sail to the docks at Shipbreaker Bay with hopes to arrive on or before the ceremony day, so that King Bran does not leave the Throne for long, where I will sit in his place while he is gone. Signed Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King.”_

She let the letter drop on the desk and she fell into a chair nearby with a huge, shaky sigh of relief. She dreaded telling Gendry, she could already picture his ‘I told you so!’ face. Gods, he was always right. But he wasn’t right about Jon, not yet. Still, she thought as she steadied herself, Sansa and Bran would be with her in two moons time. She missed them, almost as much as she had when she was on the road years ago. Storms End felt like home for her now. Wherever Gendry was felt like home. But she was still a daughter of the North, and winter ran through her veins. She missed the cool winds and spring snows at Winterfell, the whispering trees in the Godswood and the hot springs of her youth. Sansa wasn’t bringing any hot pools or cold snows with her, no, but with her she brought a memory of home. With her red hair she brought her mother, and Bran’s grey eyes and long face brought her father to her. 

She looked over at the array of wedding gifts sent by Westerosi families already piled high in their chambers. Fancy crockery painted with stags and wolves, polished silverware, dresses for Arya in every colour she could imagine, handsome embroidered jerkins for Gendry, short swords and a hammer forged to the exact model of Robert Baratheon’s, and small trinkets all sat in the corner of the room. Though she was grateful to the houses who had sent gifts, Arya knew they would never compare to what Sansa and Bran would bring her. The gift of home. 

A small knock came at the door to pull her from her thoughts.  
“Yes?” Arya called.  
Maester Wayn, a small old man who had been Maester at the Castle for as long as anyone knew, stood in the door frame. Arya nodded at him to enter. He shuffled forward tentatively, as though keeping a secret, hunched over with his hands crossed in front of him.  
“My Lady, forgive me, are you quite well? Your handmaid, Floris, told me you were unwell this morn and that you might like some lemon balm or chamomile tea for your nerves?” He asked, the crows feet wrinkles around his eyes creasing as he spoke.  
“Oh yes, thank you. I was unwell this morning but I feel much better now.”  
She expected him to take his leave to fetch some tea but he stayed, shuffling on his feet. She raised an eyebrow at him, a silent question of his presence.  
“My Lady, you haven’t sent for moon tea in three moons now. It begs me to ask, when did you last bleed?”  
“I....”, she thought hard for a moment. How could she have not noticed? “I haven’t.”  
“In three moons?”  
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve just been so stressed about the wedding, about my family, I haven’t even thought...” Her blood had always been so irregular. She had gone this long without it before. It started when she was four and ten and had never come once a moon, always two or three moons, if that. She always assumed it was due to her constant hunger when she travelled with the Brotherhood, or her near starvation at Harrenhal.  
“My Lady,” said Maester Wayn said softly, “perhaps I should examine you?”


	7. Pigeon Pie Stomach

“There’s no doubt, my lady. You’re with child.” Maester Wayn’s words echoed in her head long after he’d finished examining her. Arya stood up shakily from the bed, in which she hadn’t moved a muscle for what felt like hours, but was likely only minutes. She walked to the long looking glass that sits propped against the pale-grey stone walls of the lord’s chambers. She turned sideface in the mirror, and stares at her bare stomach. There was a definite small swell in her belly, but not much more than when she ate too much pigeon pie at supper. Except, when she pressed a little on this stomach, it was hard, not pigeon pie soft.

She let her hands run across the tiny bump in small circles. A _babe._ She rubbed the soft, slightly stretched skin there, imagining a life growing inside of her. A life her and Gendry had made. She imagined how she’d look when Sansa and Bran saw her, five moons pregnant, all swollen and big bellied. How had she not noticed the tightness of her breeches? Why hadn’t the fact she’d been craving honey tarts, normally far too sweet for her, not made her question if she might be with child? 

She let out an unsteady breath as she pawed at her stomach, a smile playing at her lips. There was a _babe_ growing in there. All the times she’d laid after Gendry had loved her and prayed for his seed to quicken within her, and yet she still wasn’t prepared for this, for what it would feel like. _I wish my Lady Mother were here,_ Arya thought with stinging eyes, _she’d tell me everything I need to know, that everything was going to be alright._ She let her fingers trail over the thick scars across her middle that travelled from her left side to her belly button. The puckered red line began above her hip bone and ran jaggedly, uneven from the Waif twisting the knife deep in her abdomen, over her little bloated belly. 

__She was _with child,_ despite that ugly scar, despite all that her body had been through. Mayhaps when Gendry had laid on their featherbed, pressing soft kisses to the thick red disfigurement, calling it beautiful and praying to the Old Gods and the New that she could carry a child, one of the Gods had listened. Arya pictured a skinny little girl with knobby knees and brown hair running about the castle. Or a boy, with blue eyes and a thick mop of dark hair. Her breath catches in her throat and she brings a hand to her mouth and wills herself not to weep. Three moons pregnant. She must have conceived the night she stopped taking moon tea, or a few days after. She had to laugh, _the seed really is strong,_ she thought. _ _

__

__Gendry. She had to tell Gendry. She steadied her breath, wiped her eyes and moved from the mirror. She slipped one of his discarded tunics over her stomach and realised how the little bump had been hidden so well under the billowing white fabric. Slipping on brown cotton breeches and her leather riding boots she set off. She knew just where to find him._ _

__Arya walked the length of the castle, through long corridors and down winding staircases until she reached the vast grounds of the keep. She strode purposefully across the training yard and past the stables, nodding and smiling at the folk going about their daily duties in the courtyard of the castle. She reached the forge at the back of the large yard and crept in through the door, quiet as a shadow._ _

__She liked when Gendry didn’t hear her coming in over the singing of steel, and she could spy him working for a little while. He’d lit a torch and started a fire in the forge, and was hammering steel on the anvil. He beat the hammer to the steel again and again, in a steady, melodic rhythm, only stopping to draw his arm to his forehead, wiping sweat from his brow. She remembered watching him work while they were at Harrenhal, how she’d admired the play of muscles in his chest, and wondered at his strength. The dim firelight complimented his frame, the shadows dancing around him making shapes on his skin, each grove of every muscle on his sculpted body visible in the firelight. His forehead was scrunched with his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, while his breath came out in time with his effort between slightly parted lips._ _

__The hammer seemed almost a part of him, as though connected to his arm. He and his hammer were one tool, working away at the thick lump of steel that would become a beautiful long sword. He was skilled at his craft, and she was glad he didn’t have to give it up because he became a Lord. He lifted the steel, now forged into a more sword-like shape, and turned to dip the burning tip of the metal into a bucket of cool water, making it hiss and steam. He lifted his eyes for just a moment and spotted her in the shadows. He didn’t fright like everyone else did when she appeared from nowhere. He was used to her appearing, as though a ghost, before him._ _

__His eyes softened as he placed the steel back down on the anvil, and untied the apron around his neck leaving his chest bare. She spoke first, “How were your lessons today?”_ _

__“Hard. Came here to remind myself I’m good at something.” He smiled, wearily.  
Davos had been teaching him how to read and write proper. As an orphan of Fleabottom he’d never learnt, he’d never had any need to. But Davos insisted he learnt, just like he’d had to when he was in Stannis’ service. He was learning, and he tried hard. He came to her some nights and showed her how he could read a letter from a Lord that a raven sent, spelling out each word loud and clear. Or he would ask her to practice his numbers with gold coins, and she gladly obliged. Although they always ended up...distracted. She wasn’t the best teacher. But it was writing that he struggled with, his big, clumsy blacksmiths hands not holding his peacock-feather quill quite right, causing the ink to spill and splodge on the parchment. _The hammer suited him more than the quill,_ she thought. _ _

__“You’re a fighter before a writer.” She quipped, drawing nearer to him until she stood before him.  
“And you’re a poet and you didn’t know it.” He planted a chaste kiss on her brow whilst cleaning his hands with a nearby cloth.  
“Have you been writing today?” She asked as he wiped soot and sweat from his face and chest.  
“Aye. The worst.”  
“You’re good with your hands in other ways.” She said, gesturing to his work. “In all the ways that count.” She wrapped her arms around his waist suggestively, dirtying the white tunic she wore as she pressed her little frame against his sooty skin. Smirking, he picked her up as though she was light as air and sat her on the anvil, pushing himself between her legs and brushing his lips against hers. His fingers ran feather light down her spine causing her to shiver, as he kissed her soft and slow, before moving them from her back to find the laces of her breeches, fully intending to show her how well he could use his hands. She stopped him gently. 

“Later.” She promised, “I have something to tell you.”  
“Good news or bad?” He asked as she hopped back down from the anvil and stood to face him.  
“Bran is coming to the wedding.”  
A broad smile, big and true, spread across his face, “I told you so!” - there it was - “I told you he’d come!” He encased her in her big arms, “Still nothing from Jon?”  
She shook her head no.  
“Is there something else?” He sensed her secrets.  
“Yes.”  
He stared at her quizzically, his brows knotted in anticipation and his blue eyes searching her face for answers. 

She removed his hands from the small of her back and released herself from his strong embrace. She took a deep breath and replaced his calloused hands on her stomach. She didn’t even have to speak before his eyes glimmered with realisation, as he looked back and forth between her eyes and her tummy. 

“I’m pregnant, Gendry.” She whispered, as though speaking it will make it more real. Her words hung in the air like thick fog.  
His eyes shone with tears and a shaky, slow smile played at the edges of his lips.  
“Are you sure?” He breathed, unable to move his eyes from her stomach.  
She nodded, “Maester Wayn examined me. I’m three moons along.”  
“Three...” Gendry breathes and goes so pale Arya worries he’s going to faint. He tentatively trails his hands over her little rounded belly, so softly as though he’s afraid to hurt her. She places her hands on either side of his face, caressing his cheeks and causing his eyes to dart up and stare into her own. 

“You’re incredible.” He sighs, “our child...”, he stares at her, her tummy, and back to her, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. He can’t believe this is real, that his hands are grasping at her stomach that holds their child. With his hands gently pressed around her little bump he leans down to capture her lips, and kisses her just as he had when they found each other after the Long Night, when he’d grabbed her, held her, kissed her with such a passion it stole the breath from her lungs. 

“I love you,” he whispered to her between kisses. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”  
“I know,” Arya said as she squeezed him tighter, “I love you, too.” He kissed her nose, her forehead, each of her cheeks, her neck, wetting each places with tears as he went.  
“You’re soaking me, silly bull.” She laughed lightly, not really caring, which he knew. Tears fell from her eyes too, so she couldn’t really tell which wetness belonged to him and which belonged to her. 

After everything she had lost in the wars, after all they had been through, it hadn’t been for nothing. Because here she was, in the arms of the man she adored, carrying his child inside her. Every death, every scar, every hurt, every battle, it had all meant something. She had always had the will to survive. She had to survive to see her siblings again, she had to survive to take names off her list, she had to survive to kill the Night King. Until now, until Gendry, until this babe, it had all felt meaningless. Now, she had a reason to _live._ To truly, unapologetically live. 

Gendry shushed her and held her tighter as she realised she was crying loud and heavy, with huge, deep sobs escaping her mouth. He didn’t have to ask why, he knew. One she had calmed a little, he knelt down in front of her and lifted her shirt up to the top of the little bulge, and planted soft kisses over her stomach. “I love you. I love you so much already.” He murmured into her skin, to the babe. She ran her hands through his thick, dark hair as his lips trailed over her tummy. He set his chin on bump and looked up at her with his deep blue eyes. “I hope it’s a girl. A wild, wolf girl with grey eyes and brown hair.” He said, his voice thick with emotion. 

She knelt down to join him on the smithy floor, “I hope it’s a boy. A bull-headed, stubborn little thing with blue eyes and black hair.”  
They both chuckled through their tears.  
“Whatever it is, whatever it looks like, it’ll be half of you and half of me. It’ll be brave and beautiful and brilliant.” Gendry affirmed, pressing his forehead to hers.  
“Stubborn and wilful and wild.” She countered.  
“Why not both?”  
“Gods help us, then.”  
“Gods help us.” Gendry agreed with a smile. 


	8. Winterhell Wolf Bread

He liked to kiss her along the stretch marks that had slowly appeared across her swollen stomach. _These are good marks,_ he thinks, _better than her scars from Braavos._ He gets some dandelion balm from Maester Wayn that is supposed to help fade the marks, and tasks himself to rub it on her bump morning and night. But it was mostly an excuse to touch the swell of her stomach. A moon had passed since she told him she was with child. She had ‘popped’ in that time, Marya had said. She was visibly pregnant now, the bump causing his tunics to flare out at the top of her belly, so her pregnancy couldn’t be hidden for long. The people of Storm’s End praised them both, excited and thankful for an heir to their kingdom. 

He loved to lie beside her on the nights she couldn’t sleep and draw lazy patterns on the stretched skin. He took to practicing his letters on her stomach, and it quickly became a game. Arya would whisper words for him to spell out on her bump, and he’d spell out the letters with his fingers, tracing over all the marks and scars on her little belly. It was the first time he’d enjoyed his writing lessons.

By half way through the fourth moon, she started to feel a quickening in her stomach. One day she called Gendry to their solar with a frantic voice.  
“Arya? Is something wrong?” He asked as he finds her laid on the bed with eyes wide, hands hovering over her stomach. She shook her head, “come here”, she beckoned him, and when he reached her he knelt down on the floor by her bedside. She takes his hands and places them on her bump like she did when she told him she was with child. He waits, and waits...  
“Is something supposed to be happening?” He asks with humour in his voice.  
“Shh!” She prods him and then prods her stomach gently.  
“Wake up, little babe. Move again.” She wills her bump. Suddenly, he can feel the little kick of their baby through her skin. It makes him jump, and his surprise sends her into fits of laughter, which concurrently sends the babe kicking like a little fighter. He watches the soft, stretched skin bulge slightly near her belly button, little feet prodding inside of her. He kisses her stomach again and again, following where the little bulges appear.  
“What does it feel like?” He mumbles, lips still at her skin.  
“It feels like...bubbles. Like a fluttering inside me. It feels...real.” 

They had told Davos soon after Arya found out herself, and he looked amused and unsurprised.  
“Ah,” He’d exclaimed, as if he’d finally figured something out that had been troubling him, “So this is the meaning for the wedding I’m planning.”  
“No!” They had cried in unison.  
“I mean...” Arya began, “I only just found out. We decided to marry before the Maester told me.”  
“Well, all the more reason then.” He chuckled, taking Arya in his arms. “Congratulations, little wolf.” He mumbled into her hair, “Mayra will be so pleased to have a little one in the castle.”  
He pulled Gendry into a large embrace.  
“You don’t seem very surprised, Davos.” Gendry questioned him.  
“Aye, I guessed she was with child.”  
“How?” Arya asked.  
“Have you seen how many honey cakes you’ve been stuffing yourself with lately?” He chuckled, his wrinkled face lighting up with laughter. “Maester Wayn came to me and told me you hadn’t been taking your moon tea. I knew it was only a matter of time.”  
“That bloody Maester!” Arya exclaimed, arms flailing in the air.  
Gendry rolled his eyes, he’d always known the Maester was more like the Master of Whisperers.  
“That sneaky...that gossiping...” The more irate Arya became the more amusing it was to Davos and Gendry.  
“Hush now,” Gendry said pinning her wild, waving arms to her sides, “People were going to find out sooner or later anyway.” He moved his hands from her sides to her stomach by way of explanation. She only huffed in response. 

“Should we send ravens to Sansa, Bran and Jon?” Davos asked.  
“Jon is yet to respond to my last raven.” Arya sighed. With less than a moon to the wedding, she grew less hopeful of his reply by the day. “But, no. I’d like to see their faces when they see me. Besides, Sansa will have already set off on the King’s Road by now.”  
“As you wish, m’lady.” Like foster father like adopted son, Arya thought, shaking her head at Davos’ courtesy. 

Later that day, Marya had come to find Arya in her and Gendry’s chambers.  
“Lord Baratheon, might I have a word with Lady Stark on her own?” Marya asked, peering in at the doorway.  
Gendry nodded, lay a gentle hand on Arya’s middle, placed a kiss on her brow and left the room, but not before Davos’ sweet wife embraced him and offered her congratulations.  
Arya stood to greet her and met her warm hug with ease.  
“Congratulations, my child.” She placed a wet kiss on both of her cheeks. “I trust your lady mother prepared you for this?”  
“Actually...no. I was barely older than a child the last time I saw her, and a stubborn child who refused to ever marry and bare children, at that. So I suppose she never saw need.” She explained, trying to ignore the tears threatening her eyes. Gods, she was so emotional these days. All that faceless training at the House of Black and White to be emotionless and recently she couldn’t stop crying.  
Marya read her thoughts, “It’s normal to feel emotional,” she wiped an escaping tear from the corner of Arya’s eyes. “I suppose I have a lot to tell you, then.” 

Marya sat her back down on the large bed, and explained everything from nausea and mood swings to the birth itself.  
“I don’t mean to frighten you, sweetling.” She rubbed Arya’s hands, seeing her wide eyes and pale face, “the pain is worth a lifetime of happiness. Our bodies are meant to bare it. Think of it as a battle.”  
Arya gulped, and realised her throat was dry as a Dornish desert. She had thought about being with child, but had tried to suppress all thought of actually birthing the babe. She’d been outside the door when her mother had Rickon, and had blocked her blood-curdling screams out of her mind ever since. She remembered how her Lord Father was ordered to stay outside, and not go in the room until her after her mother had given birth.  
“Marya, can Gendry be in the room with me, when...it happens?”  
“It’s not proper, little lady. It’s not a place for men.”  
Arya only laughed.  
“What’s so funny, sweet?” Marya asked her, confused.  
“I’d like to see anyone try and stop him from being by my side when the babe is born.”  
“Aye, I suppose. Old Gods and the New help the man who tries to cross the bull.” She smiled. 

A small knock came at the closed door.  
“Yes?” Arya called. Ser Glovelyn, one of their trusted men-at-arms, appeared in the door frame.  
“Someone here to see you, m’lady. Goes by the name of...Pork Pie?”  
Arya suppressed a snort at Glovelyn’s nickname for her childhood friend. Arya jumped up from the bed, planted a peck on Marya’s forehead and said hurriedly, “Thank you for your council, Marya, but I must go and greet our guest.” Marya nodded in understanding as she raced from the room as though a child again. She hurried through the halls, grabbing Gendry on her way. 

“Our wedding cook is here!” She chimed, and he chased after her, shouting about being careful down the stairs.  
They rushed down to the courtyard together, and Arya was surprised by how quickly she ran out of breath in her present state. 

“There he is!” Called Gendry, as he overtook her while she caught her breath.  
“Hot Pie!” Arya cried as she spotted her old friend in the yard. He was a man grown now, larger in both height and width since she’d last seen him. No remnants of Harrenhal starvation left, Arya thought, but she supposed that’s what happens when you work at an Inn. His features had softened with age, his once oversized nose and ears now fit with the shape of his face, and his eyes that had once brimmed with suspicion were now kind under bushy thick brows. He still had a scar on his forehead from when they were young, a reminder that this was the boy they once knew. 

Gendry reached him first, and Hot Pie actually _bowed,_ mumbling something that sounded like “Pleased to see you again, milord.” Gendry chuckled and used his large hands to pull him up, and gave him a large embrace.  
“You look, well, Hot Pie. Working in kitchens suits you.” Gendry said warmly.  
“So do you, Bull. Lordship suits you.” He replied with his thick Southern accent, courtesies forgotten already. That was until he turned to Arya and did what she thinks was supposed to resemble a curtsey, but only left him wobbling on one foot. “Good to see you again, Lady Arya.”  
“Hot Pie, it’s Arry. Always Arry to you.” She whacked him for the courtesy and then grabbed him for an embrace. 

“I baked you some brown bread, my best batch yet. I remembered how you liked it last time.” He beamed.  
“What shape is it this time?” She quipped lightly.  
“I made two batches, Winterhell direwolves and Baratheon stags.” He said proudly.  
“Winter _fell!”_ Arya smiled, “I look forward to trying them.”  
“Looks like you don’t need any.” He japed. He really had forgotten all his courtesies, not just to Ladies but women in general.  
“Hot Pie!” She wacked him on the arm again, “Do you want another stick beating like when we were children?”  
“No, Lady Arry.”  
She rolled her eyes at him, “Besides, I can have as much bread as I like. I’m eating for two.”  
His brow furrowed in confusion. She pulled Gendry’s tunic tighter to her body to make her protruding belly stick out more. Still, the baffled look on his face remained.  
“I’m pregnant, Hot Pie.” His mouth fell open into a perfect ‘O’ shape and she chortled at his shocked face.

He looked to Gendry, and back to Arya.  
“A...babe?” He barely managed, looking between her and Gendry with comically large eyes, wide as dinner plates. He’d only just got used to the idea that his two childhood friends were to be wed, and now he learned that they were having a babe. Gendry nodded at him and laughed.  
“So this is why I’ve been summoned to a wedding, then.” Hot Pie said, blinking away the tears forming in his eyes, attempting a jape to hide the thick emotion in his slightly quivering voice.  
“No!” She knew she was going to hear that a lot. “We only just found out.”  
“Well...” he began, sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I’ll have to make you lots of bread then.”


	9. Grumpkins and Snarks

The night Hot Pie arrived at Storm’s End, Arya and Gendry dined in the kitchens with him rather than in the Great Hall as usual. They exchanged tales of years gone by, Hot Pie telling them all about the many faces he saw at the Crossroads Inn, and Arya telling him of the Battle for Winterfell. She explained with a shaky voice all about the Great Burning, and Hot Pie listened intently, every once in a while placing once of his big hands over hers to comfort her. They told him stories of how they met each other again, after so many years, all though they left out a few details of the Long Night, and a store room filled with sacks of grain. 

Hot Pie had made them lamprey pie, Gendry’s favourite, and it was one of the best she’d tasted.  
“You have to made this for the wedding feast, Hot Pie.” Arya had said, licking gravy off her fingers. “It really is delicious. And lots of brown bread, too.”

A few days after Hot Pie’s arrival, all the castle had praised his cooking. Gendry had suggested to Arya in private that they should ask Hot Pie to stay on in the kitchens after the wedding, offering to double whatever wages he received at the Crossroads. Arya had whole heartedly agreed, although suggested that they keep it a secret from him until after the wedding.

A few days later, Arya found herself on the shores of Shipbreaker Bay, the unusually calm sea allowing her to walk along the sea’s edge. Arya had received a raven that morn, indicating that Sansa’s party should arrive before nightfall. She walked along the beach, feeling the wet sand between her toes as she held her leather boots in her hand. The water lapped around her ankles at each tide, and the biting cold of the water was a welcome sensation in the heat of the afternoon. A light wind breezed through her hair, causing it to flow around her head and kept it off her sticky skin. As she walked, she had her hand placed subconsciously on her stomach. She pictured walking these shores hand in hand with her child one day. 

“I thought I might find you here.” She heard Gendry call from behind her. “I always find you here when you receive news that troubles you. Is it Jon?” 

“And I always find you in the forge when something is troubling you.” She quipped, turning on her heels to see him. He looked handsome today, even more than usual. He wore a clean white tunic, one he had stolen back from her, and he had unlaced the top of it due to the heat of the day, giving perfect view to the top of his sculpted chest. A light sheet of sweat gleaned on the surface of his skin, and his hair had a slight wave in it due to the spray of the salty sea water. She loved his hair after they’d been swimming, or when it got a slight kink in it from the salt in the air. The dark curls felt nice wrapped between her fingers. He donned light tan cotton britches, a change from the usual Baratheon black leather. They suited him, though, and complimented his skin that had tanned a little in the Stormland’s sun. “It’s Sansa. She should be here by the end of the day.” 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” He asked as he stood to meet her, placing a kiss on her brow and putting his hands on her stomach, which he also did subconsciously. 

“Yes...only I’m nervous. I haven’t seen her in almost a year.”

One of his hands left her stomach to place a piece of unruly hair behind her ear. “I know, love. But you’ll be so happy once she gets here. Once they all get here.”

“Milord! Milady!" Arya and Gendry heard a shout. They turned to see a stable boy shouting, "Riders, Milord! Riders coming down the King's Road! A host of riders and wagons!”

They hastily made their way back to the castle in time to see carriages being pulled by horses into the yard, along with hosts of guards and soldiers. Once all the carriages had been dragged in, Arya watched the rear lone riders come through the gates and into the large courtyard. Arya saw Ser Brienne ride in on her huge black destrier horse. The colt was tall and muscular, much like the knight sat atop it. Arya envied her short straw-coloured hair in the heat of the afternoon. Brienne gave her a toothy grin that reached her blue eyes, her mouth wide. Her nose, that had been broken more than once, was peppered with freckles much like her own. She looked fierce in her armour, donning silver gauntlets that Gendry had forged for her before the Battle for Winterfell. 

Ser Podrick Payne rode in at Brienne’s heels, recently knighted into the King’s Guard, though he spent his time at Winterfell now. He sat, straight back and proud in his shining armour, his eyes scanning the yard. 

The riders gathered in the courtyard, and the guards began unpacking the wagons. Brienne and Podrick gracefully dismounted from their large steeds and made towards where Arya and Gendry stood to meet them.

“Ser Brienne!” Arya nodded her head respectfully as the knight came to meet her. 

“Arya, it’s good to see you once more.” She replied, knowing that Arya hated to be called a Lady as much as she did.

“Pod!” Gendry greeted the knight like an old friend, though they had met scarcely a handful of times at Winterfell.

“My Lord,” Pod bowed his head, “Congratulations on your engagement.”

“And more congratulations are in order, I believe?” Brienne questioned, looking down at Arya’s swollen stomach. Her bump was obvious as she was now almost five moons pregnant, and today she wore a tunic of her own, light lilac in colour and small in shape, which fit tighter to her frame than Gendry’s tunics that she loved to steal. 

“Yes,” Gendry replied, his palm finding the small of Arya’s back. “Thank you Brienne. It’s great to see you again, welcome to Storm’s End.” He offered her a warm smile. 

As they spoke, a figure stepped out of one of the riding carriages and came down the wagon steps. Arya looked behind Brienne and Pod and knew it immediately to be her sister. She looked regal and every inch a queen. Her gown, which Arya was sure would be discarded soon for a dress of lighter fabric, was thick and grey, simple for the long journey. But it was still beautiful, hugging her waist and flowing out at her hips, and at the hem off the dress sat embroidered leaves of red and gold. The leaves were stitched intricately at the bottom of the gown and became more sparse as they travelled to the waist of the dress before disappearing. The leaves were weirwood leaves, Arya recognised, a symbol of Winterfell and the North. 

Atop her head sat a crown, a silver tiara that depicted two direwolf heads meeting at the centre of the diadem. It sat comfortably, like it was meant to be there. The salty sea air had caused her long auburn locks to fall out of its neat northern braid, and her hair now clung to her sweaty frame and curled at the edges. Her sister would struggle with the heat of Storm’s End, she knew it. Despite her enjoying the warmth of King’s Landing, the muggy heat of the Stormlands was something different entirely. But she somehow looked elegant as ever, and her hair looked like a new style that all the ladies of the realm would soon be replicating. 

Her feet reached the ground and she looked at her surroundings, before her Tully blue eyes finally found Arya’s. Arya watched as her eyes went immediately to her stomach. Arya walked past the gathering crowd and towards her sister, and stopped in front of her to mock a curtsey. 

“Your Grace.” Arya said with a smirk. 

“Lady Baratheon.” Sansa replied, meeting Arya’s low curtsey despite that not being the custom, which they both knew.

“Not yet,” Arya said, “Still a Stark, for now.” The sisters stood still for a second, taking in each others presence, before meeting each other for a warm embrace. Arya’s arms wrapped around her sisters waist and they held each other for as long as the muggy warmth permitted. Arya felt a comfort in her sisters touch, it reminded her of the scarce hugs her mother would give her at Winterfell. Her father always pulled her close and wrapped his huge arms around her, but her mother less so. Not that she wasn’t loving, but she spent more time scolding Arya than holding her from the time she was old enough to cause mischief. But when she did, Arya could remember her smelling of sweet winter roses, and she could imagine the feeling of her red hair tickling her nose. Sansa’s perfumed hair smelt the same as her mother’s, sending her mind back, deep into a memory she’d forgotten. 

It was Sansa that pulled away first, moving her hands from around Arya’s shoulders to find her stomach. She felt the definite bump underneath her tunic, and her eyes flew up to meet her sister’s with a silent question. Arya nodded in reply, and Sansa’s pretty little mouth dropped open in shock. 

“Arya...you didn’t write this in your raven.” Was all she could manage.

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” She replied, searching her sisters face for a reaction beyond shock. 

Her face broke out into a huge, toothy smile, a rarity on her usually calm and composed face. “Well, I certainly am surprised!” She laughed, before lowering her voice so only Arya could hear her, “are you happy?” 

“Yes!” She reassured her sister, placing her hands on top Sansa’s that still sat on her belly. “This is what we wanted.” She gestured with a nod of her head to Gendry, who stood behind her talking to Brienne and Pod, keeping a polite distance to let the sisters reunite in peace. 

“Then I am happy for you. Congratulations, Arya.” Sansa pulled her in for another hug, squeezing her tightly “My little niece or nephew! I never thought this day would come.” She planted a kiss on Arya’s brow, before turning to Gendry, who had stood to join them. 

“Your Grace, welcome to Storm’s End.” Gendry bowed his head slightly and put on his best Lord’s voice.

“My Lord.” Sansa replied. Arya rolled their eyes at their courtesies. Sansa surprised her by ignoring the custom she seemed intent on by holding out her arms and clasping Gendry’s shoulders.

“Gendry, I have no idea how you have managed to get my wild sister to agree to a marriage _and_ a babe, but I am in awe of your abilities.” Her face wore a mischievous smile that turned sincere when she offered her congratulations and pulled him close to her for a hug, her hand on his back like when she comforted him after the Great Burning. 

“Come, let me show you to your chambers, and you can change into something more comfortable.” Arya suggested.

She planted a kiss on Gendry’s cheek to say goodbye, took her sister by the arm and led her from the courtyard, following the servants carrying Sansa’s many, many trunks to her allocated room. 

“Any word from Jon?” Arya asked Sansa as they made their way up the spiral staircase of the Storm’s End tower.

“No, little sister, I was going to ask you the same thing.” Sansa sighed. 

“Seven Hells.” Arya swore, earning her a swot from her sister. “I was so sure he’d come to the wedding.”

“Mayhaps he hasn’t even received your raven. He has never replied to mine.” 

“Aye, I feared as much. I don’t know what’s worse, him receiving the letter and ignoring it, or him never getting it at all.“ Arya replied in between puffs and pants. She couldn’t wait for this pregnancy to be over so she could finally be active again without losing all the air from her lungs.

“He hasn’t been the same since...since King’s Landing. He loved her, Arya, despite everything...they’re calling him Queenslayer, he must know that. Why would he wish to return to a place where his name is tarnished.”

“Because his name isn’t tarnished. Only by those who called Daenerys the true Queen, and those people are hard to find since the Great Burning. And because we’re still here.”

“He always meant to leave us for the wall.” She said in a small voice.

“Damn the wall!” Her outburst earned her another swot, “the blasted wall is gone, Nights Watch all but disappeared too. He lives beyond the Wall, with Tormund and the Wildlings. If he isn’t going to serve his sentence at the wall, they why serve it at all? Besides, Bran has written him a hundred royal pardons.”

“Where would he go, Arya?”

“Winterfell!”

“He never really felt Winterfell was his home...” 

“Here, then!” 

“I don’t know Arya, I don’t have the answers.” Sansa said finally as they reached the door to her chambers, “I wish that I did.” She gave her arm a comforting squeeze and Arya’s temper softened. 

“Here is your room, Your Grace.” Arya quipped, “I hope it is to your standards.” It was the finest chamber in the castle, besides her and Gendry’s. The room was large and well presented, with a scarcely lit fireplace at one end and a huge canopied bed at the other. The entire room was draped in Baratheon colours, gold silk sheets and dark furniture. Her trunks were already piled up in the corner near a large looking glass with a golden frame. 

“It’s perfect, thank you.” She replied, going to one of her trunks and pulling out a blue dress of thin fabrics. Arya sat on her bed while she dressed. 

“So,” Sansa began, now at ease to talk candidly in the private chamber, “You’re with child?”

Arya smiled. “Shocked, sister?”

“You know I am. How did this happen?” She asked as she pulled the light linen frock over her head.

“Well, Sansa, when a man and a women love each other very much...”

“Arya! You know what I meant.” Sansa laughed.

Arya shrugged, “I never thought I wanted to have children. But then, after living here awhile, I realised I didn’t want children because I didn’t believe I had a choice of whether I wanted them or not. So, naturally, because I thought I _had_ to have children, I didn’t want them. But apart from one failed proposal-“ Sansa quirked her eyebrow, “Gendry has never asked anything of me. He was just content with me being here. And I realised that left me with something I’d never had before. A choice. And I realised, when I really thought about it, that of course I wanted children. Our family has become so small over the years-“ Her voice cracked a little despite herself, and Sansa came and sat on the bed next to her, “-and I realised that I wanted to grow it again. I wanted a pack. I wanted Davos to be a Grandfather, for you to be an Aunt and for Bran and Jon to be Uncles. But most of all, I wanted Gendry to be a father. He’s going to be such a wonderful father, Sansa, I know it. And besides-“ she said, lifting her shirt slightly to reveal her scars, “I wasn’t even sure I could have children, so I thought why not try. It could take years. I think it only took a couple of days.” She laughed softly to herself. 

“Well, I’m very happy that you’re growing the pack. The lone wolf dies...” 

“But the pack survives.” Arya finished with a smile. 

“To think, if you have more, it’ll be like when we were children at Winterfell. All six of us, in that castle.” Sansa said. 

“It was wonderful, there being so many of us.“

“Do you miss Winterfell?” Sansa asked, looking around at the Bartheon-garbed room. 

“I miss the cold winds and the snow storms. I miss the people and my old room, the hot springs and the Godswood. But I have come to love it here. The heat is unbearable at first-“ Sansa’s eyes widened and nodded her head in agreement, “-but on the days without rain when you can lie on the shores and feel the sun on your skin it’s quite pleasant, it reminds me of Braavos. And the storms, they might seem frightening at first, the loud thunder and forked lightening, but if you shut your eyes and listen to the rain and the sea it’s quite calming. And the large amount of rain creates green grass and thick forests, and it reminds me of my travels through the Riverlands. I’ve come to realise that home isn’t a place, it’s a person. I think, to be honest, if Gendry weren’t here I wouldn’t have seen the beauty in the Stormlands. I think, I’d come to be happy anywhere that he was.”

“That, little sister, is love.” Sansa replied, her tone of voice suggesting a jape, but her eyes glimmered with sincerity. “I have something for you.”

“A present?” Arya’s eyes lit up. Her sister had a knack for giving great gifts, she remembered from the namedays of her youth. 

Sansa removed her hands from Arya’s and stood up off the bed. She walked over to her many trunks, searching for one in particular before spotting it and lifting off the heavy lid. Inside looked like piles of fabric, and she reached deep and rummaged around before finding something. 

“For him to cloak you with,” she said as she pulled out a heavy black cape, and stood to present it to her, holding it out in front of her body. It was huge and beautiful, it’s hem lined with thick black fur. The cloak was made from Baratheon black velvet and masterfully embroidered with gold thread in the shape of a huge stag, stitched proudly in the centre. Along the hem, Gendry’s house words were embroidered, _“Ours is the Fury”._ Arya traced the lettering, letting her fingers follow the words that fit her husband-to-be so well.

“Sansa, it’s beautiful.” She gasped, in awe of the detail her sister had put into making the wedding cloak.  
“And...” she started, smiling mischievously and bending back over the trunk to pull out yet another cloak, “one for you to cover him with.”  
“Oh Sansa...how did you know that’s what we wanted to do?”  
“Davos.” Her sister confirmed at the same time as the same name left Arya’s lips in realisation.  
“He wrote me and told me you wanted to cloak each other. It kept my hands busy on the long ride here.” Sansa explained.

Arya took the large cloak from her sister. It was made of thick grey velvet, with tufts of white fur lining the edges, and a fur collar sewn around the neckline, soft as Nymeria’s fur. She noticed little acorns embroidered in silver thread around the hem of the fabric, before the velvet met the fur, and Arya remembered telling her sister about her and Gendry’s time at Acorn Hall. Interspersed between each carefully crafted acorn sat a little white pearl, sewn delicately into the velvet so that when the cloak moved they caught the light and shone beautifully. But it was the exquisite centre piece that took her breath away, their huge wolf sigil was proudly placed in the middle of the cloak, and a crown sat atop its head. The crown was subtly encrusted with silver and white diamond stones, so the diadem seemed to glisten as though topped with snow. _“Winter is Coming”_ was stitched along the hem of the cloak, matching Gendry’s Baratheon cape. 

“Sansa, I love it.” Arya dropped the cloak gently on the bed and swept her sister into an embrace. “I’m so happy you’re here.” She whispered into her sisters red hair.

“Me too. I missed you.” Sansa replied, her voice filled with emotion. 

“I wish mother and father were here. I’d love to see their faces.” Arya breathed, as a sad laugh escaped her. “And Robb, so he could muss my hair and tell me he was proud of me, and call me little wolf. Rickon...he’d be almost a man grown now. He was little more than a babe last time I saw him...”

“They would be so proud of you, Arya. They’d think someone had slipped something in your drink, but they’d be proud.” The sisters laughed together, wiping their eyes. “And, they’d be proud of this.” Sansa’s hands fell to her stomach and caressed the bump. 

“It should be you, not me.” Arya murmured, her laughter forgotten again. 

“What do you mean?”

“This is your life, Sansa. Babes and Castles and Weddings. I don’t deserve it-“

“Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that!” Her sister scolded her, but with a warm understanding in her voice. “Yes, it’s true, I always dreamed of knights and lords and princes, weddings and babes. But I was so young then, Arya, barely three and ten, I didn’t understand anything. I didn’t understand that there are more important things than tourneys and dances. I didn’t see that I was made to rule the North. I always thought that it was Robb’s destiny, or Bran’s. But the North needs me as their Queen. I have others to think about but myself now. And don’t you ever say that you don’t deserve this. After all you’ve been through, you deserve this more than anyone.” 

Sansa wiped a tear that had escaped Arya’s eye, “what’s all this crying about? We’re supposed to be celebrating! Where’s the little wolf-blooded urchin I once knew?” 

Arya stuck her tongue out at her sister, “she’s still in here, somewhere. The pregnancy is making me so emotional, I hate it.” They both giggled. “Don’t you get lonely, Sansa? At Winterfell on your own?”

Sansa considered her reply carefully. “I’m married to the North. I cannot take a husband or have children.”

“I don’t believe that.” Arya said, “I think you can always have both.”

Her sister smiled sadly, “Perhaps. But who is left for me after all the wars? Yohn Royce perhaps?” She jests as Arya pulls a disgusted face, “Robin Arryn?” Arya’s face turned from one of disgust to disturbance, “Mayhaps a grumpkin or a snark or a giant ice spider from beyond the wall can keep my bed warm at night?”

The sisters fell into fits of laughter. Arya had missed this. 

“I would rather see you married to grumpkin or a snark than Sweetrobin.” Arya said through her childish giggles, before turning more serious. “I will find you a match somewhere in these Kingdoms.” 

“Good luck to you, Arya.” 

“What’s that left in the trunk?” Arya asked when her eyes wandered and landed on the trunk with fabrics still inside.

“You can’t see yet, it’s not finished! It needs some...adjustments.” Sansa replied with a flicker of mischief in her eyes. 

“Fine,” Arya sighed. “Come, I’ll show you Shipbreaker Bay, and if the weather permits I’ll take you on the beach.”


	10. Arrivals and Reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! thanks so much for 16,800 reads!! if you’d like chapter updates, or if you are just interested in more gendrya content, you can follow my tumblr @miladyaryastark.
> 
> in this chapter, i verge into book canon more than show canon, so bear with me. in this version, gendry isn’t sold to melisandre by the brotherhood, and arya runs away from the brotherhood and is captured by the hound. as far as we know, gendry stayed with the brotherhood for a time but later left and began smithing in kings landing like in the show. this way i avoid bringing in lady stoneheart (complicated to chuck in a story like this) but it allows arya and gendry to have a positive reunion with the brotherhood, like i imagine might happen in the books. hope this makes sense!! thank you X

The days leading up to the wedding went by in a blur of arrivals and reunions. The most surprising arrival came a few days after Sansa. Arya had heard three sharp blows of a horn, meaning riders were coming, a sound she had heard a lot with the arrivals of various Lords and Ladies to Storm’s End. The Bucklers of Bronzegate had arrived earlier that morn, the Cafferens of Fawnton and the Caron’s of Nightsong weren’t far behind, the Errol’s of Haystack Hall, the Estermonts of Greenstone, and the Mertyns of Mistwood were still to be expected. And they were just the Houses of the Stormlands coming to the feast, as Davos had insisted. 

But when the horn blew on that windy afternoon, a week before her wedding, she wasn’t expecting the Brotherhood without Banners to come riding through the castle gates. Or at least, what was left of them. The Brotherhood wasn’t much needed in the Riverlands anymore, there wasn’t much use for outlaws protecting the small folk while there was peace in the realm. Still, they roamed the Riverlands keeping the small folk feeling safe from petty thieves and common crimes. Due to their everlasting elusive nature, and the fact they had not seen them for years, Arya and Gendry had not considered them for their wedding feast. But word had reached them and they had decided to make themselves welcome. Lem Lemoncloak, Tom Sevenstrings, Anguy and Ned Dayne all rode into Storm’s End unannounced, but clearly announced themselves with their shouts and yells. 

Ned remained as polite as ever, dismounting his horse and offering his congratulations, and happy surprise, at their wedding and Arya’s pregnancy. Gendry put his childhood jealousies aside and greeted him warmly as an old friend. He looked well, now a man grown, his pale blonde hair cut short and his dark blue eyes, so dark they were almost purple, were warm and friendly.

Lem, Tom and Anguy tackled Gendry to the ground as soon as they dismounted their horses, and Arya thanked the Gods that no snooty Lord’s were here to see Gendry rolling about the courtyard floor with a bunch of ragamuffin outlaws. Although on second thought, she’d quite like to see their faces. There were vague shouts of “I always knew you were after the princess!”, “Didn’t Tom teach you nothin’ about moon tea?”, and “Lord Baratheon suits you better than Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill.” 

Once they’d stopped scrapping like dogs, Anguy was the first to greet her with a warm embrace. 

“Lady Stark.” He said, pretend courtesies after attacking Gendry. His curly brown hair was greying slightly and his eyes were aged, but he still had the sprinkling of freckles on his nose that Arya remembered, and his famous bow and arrow at his back.

Lem and Tom stood to greet her too, both offering her hugs and congratulations.  
Tom touched her stomach lightly, “The little she-wolf is having a wolf-babe!” He sang.

“It’ll be a stag, Tom. A little stag-babe.” Japed Anguy.

“No, it’ll be a bull.” Lem protested, as Tom pulled on the strings of his wood harp that he never let out of his sight, and plucked on often while speaking. 

“Still wearing your Lemon cloak I see, and your bushy brown beard.” Arya teased Lem, gesturing to his large, hooded yellow cloak and scratchy facial hair. 

“Aye, and my nose is still crooked from the time you broke it with a tankard.” He quipped back. He looked older, once a fierce and brawny soldier, he now appeared thin and more frail, his cloak drowning him. His mind was still quick, though, Arya thought, and he could still fight all the green boys the Stormlands called soldiers with his eyes closed. 

Tom appeared much the same, he was always small and trim with thinning brown hair. He retained his foxy appearances with a sharp nose and a wide smile, and still donned patched, faded green cloak and wielded a woodman's axe for a weapon. 

Arya’s eyes looked past Lem, Tom and Anguy to a small carriage being pulled through the gates.

“Are they travelling with you?” Gendry asked the three men, watching the wagon roll in. 

“Aye, but they didn’t feel like the long ride on horseback.” Answered Lem.

“How far have you travelled?” Gendry asked, bringing his arm around Arya’s waist. 

“All the way from Acorn Hall.” Said Tom.

“Acorn Hall?” Arya questioned, remembering fondly the short time her and Gendry had spent their in their youth. 

The door to the carriage swung open, and out stepped a short old man that Arya did not recognise. He had a round belly and was dressed in clothes of fine yellow fabrics. He turned back to the wagon to give his hand to a woman, dressed in silks of the same colour, and decorated with little acorns. Arya knew her immediately to be Lady Smallwood, who had hosted her and the Brotherhood during the War of the Five Kings. 

“Lady Smallwood!” She called across the yard, walking to meet her. Her eyes met Arya’s and they were as kind as she remembered. 

“My Lady, My Lord.” She bent low, but Arya pulled her up into a warm embrace and greeted Lord Smallwood. 

“Arya, please!” Arya protested at the same time as Gendry objected to his title. 

“Only if you’ll call us Ravella and Theomar, sweetling.” She said, smiling sweetly at them both, and her eyes shot to Arya’s stomach. “Ah! Such wonderful news! Congratulations.” And gave her another hug despite them just breaking away from the last. 

“I’m so glad I could see you again, I never got the chance to properly thank you for your hospitality.” Arya said. 

“My dear, it was no trouble at all.”

“There would’ve been trouble if anyone had found out the little Lady Stark was hiding behind your walls.” Called Tom, walking to join them.

“Aye. But I never knew there was a little Lady Stark behind my walls. She never acted like a Lady.” Ravella jested, although a glint in her brown eyes told Arya otherwise. Perhaps the woman had known her identity all along, but understood the importance of her silence. 

“If we had known you would travel so far South we would have formally invited you all.” Gendry said to the group gathered in the courtyard. 

“I didn’t expect anyone to travel this far, except my sister and Jon.” Arya agreed. 

“Well, then we wouldn’t have come.” Said Anguy, “we only go where we aren’t invited.” 

“I hope there will be enough beds for us all? Turning up unexpectedly.” Said Lady Smallwood, holding Arya gently by the arm.

“You looked after me and put a roof over my head all those years ago, Ravella. Now let me return the favour. This castle has more than enough chambers, and besides, if worst comes to worst then this lot-“ She pointed to Tom, Anguy and Lem, “are all used to sleeping outside.” 

 

Arya heard the hooves of yet another horse, and turned back to the gates. 

“Ah, a straggler.” Lem called, looking at the entrance to the courtyard where a hooded figure appeared on horseback through the stone walls. 

“We told you to ride in the carriage, old man!” Anguy shouted, turning to face the mysterious traveller.

The figure removed his hood to reveal an aged man with a thick, dark beard. He looked at Arya and gave her a weary smile, and she recognised him to be Harwin. 

“Harwin!” Arya called, reaching him as quickly as she could as he dismounted his horse. She lifted herself onto her tip toes to wrap her arms around his neck in an embrace. Thankfully he wasn’t too tall, as age meant he stood with a hunched back. His thin cloak smelt of horse, reminding her of when he was Master of Horse at Winterfell when she was a child.

“What has an old outlaw done to deserve this welcome.” He chucked warmly as she held him close. 

“You were my father’s man before an outlaw.” She said, which meant nothing and everything at the same time. “The last of the Winterfell guardsmen.” 

“Aye, that I was.” He agreed as they parted. 

“You’re the closest thing I have to father, now. A true Northman. You even look like him with your scratchy beard.” Arya said with a hint of sadness. Of course she had Jon, with his dark hair and grey eyes. She always saw him as her father’s son and her brother, despite the fact her received his Stark features from his mother, and her aunt. But Jon was three and twenty, and didn’t bear her father’s wrinkles, his tired eyes, nor his thick beard. It was the same for Bran, too. But when she looked upon Harwin’s weather-worn and ageing face, she saw her father somewhere in there. 

“No little one,” he said, placing a hand on her stomach, _“this_ is the closest thing you have to your father.” 

 

After much catching up, Arya settled the men into a shared chamber that she asked the maid girls to quickly make up with four beds. She showed Ravella and Theomar to their private chambers, near to Davos and Marya. She thought Ravella and Marya would get along, they shared the same lively personality and kind faces. 

 

The next arrival came a few days later from the sea. In the morn, two days before their wedding, Arya and Gendry awoke to the sound of four horn blasts, meaning an arrival into Shipbreaker Bay. 

Arya rose quickly, draping a sheet around her for modesty, and walked to the large window at the end of their chambers. Gendry rolled over, yawning widely, before getting up with a large stretch and moving to join her. White and grey sails as large as thunder clouds could be seen on the waves from miles away, as it was an unusually bright day. The grand ship would soon be docking at the small harbour of the notoriously dangerous bay, but with the low wind and small waves Arya knew the ship was safe to dock. 

“Bran?” Gendry asked, his voice sleepy and raspy behind her. 

“Bran.” She confirmed. 

She dressed quickly into a blue shirt and brown breeches, cursing how tight the trousers felt even when laced as loosely as she could manage. She knew she’d have to get Sansa or Mayra to alter them, or she’d have to start wearing dresses. At least they wouldn’t be corseted. 

Gendry dressed quickly in his fine Baratheon leathers and followed her from their chambers. Arya reached Sansa’s room, raised a hand to knock on the wooden door, only for it to be swung open. Sansa stood, already dressed and ready to leave. She had long forgotten her thick, grey Winterfell gowns and now wore dresses of a Southern style. Today she wore a dress of light cotton organdie that was dyed a pretty rose pink, which complimented her pale complexion. It reminded Arya of the dresses she wore in Kings Landing, as the Storm Ladies did tend to mix the fashions of the Crownlands with that of the Reach and Dorne, as the Stormlands bordered all three. The dress had the bodice of a Kings Landing dress, wrapping across her body and tying at the front, but the short, ruched sleeves were Dornish inspired, and fit for the muggy heat. She let her hair loose too, she had given up attempting to style it when the salty wind pulled it out of any intricate braid her handmaids had worked. 

“I saw their sails, they should be here soon!” She said, beaming from ear to ear. Sansa had left for Winterfell after Bran’s coronation, and so hadn’t seen him for almost a year the same as Arya. They walked through the castle, across the extensive grounds, past the beaches and the cliffs to the next cove along where the Storm’s End docks were. Davos was already there, he loved watching the ships come into the harbour. Marya and Ravella were back at the castle no doubt, gossiping and sewing together like they had done since they met. 

The huge ship made its way into the port, and lined up with the pier where the boat would be tethered before the water became too shallow. Arya watched the Stark sails flap in the light breeze, as the huge wooden plank came down from the ship and met the pier with a slam. 

Sansa, Arya, Gendry and Davos watched as the ship hands and crew members came down the gangplank and secured the large boat to the docks with thick rope. The loud grating sound of the heavy anchor being lowered rang in the air, mingling with the sounds of gulls and waves. 

Once the boat was safely secured to the pier, Arya watched as the guests appeared from the ship and onto the pier. Sam and Gilly, followed by little Sam, walked along the wooden platform towards the waiting crowd. Gilly held her new babe in her arms. They had written across the realm of his birth and of his naming, Jon Tarly. 

Sam looked well, he was thinner than Arya remembered, but he somehow retained his large cheeks and round face. He wore his Maester’s clothes, a thick, shapeless grey robe and a simple tunic beneath it. His impressive Maester’s chain displayed links of black iron, signifying ravenry, bronze for history, gold for accounting, pale steel and silver signifying medicine and healing, and also links of copper, lead and platinum. Gilly also looked slimmer, but that was purely for her loss of baby bump. Her hair was wild as ever, and her pale face and big brown doe-eyes were as Arya recalled from the few times she had seen her.

Little Sam reached them first, running along the pier as fast as his chubby little legs would carry him, and launched himself upon Gendry who stood closest to the docks. 

“Samwell!” Gilly half heartedly scolded her son with a smile as Gendry lifted little Sam above his head and spun him around, causing him to scream with delight. Gendry attempted to place him down again to greet Sam and Gilly but little Sam clung onto him, grabbing at his leathers and hair, so he sat him on his shoulders so his hands were free to shake Sam’s. 

Arya and Sansa greeted Gilly and little Jon, Sansa cooing over the babe. Sam offered his congratulations to Arya, but didn’t have the look of shock on his face as everyone else who had seen her.

“Is Bran with you?” Sansa asked the couple.

“Yes, Meera was just helping him into his chair, little Sam was getting restless so we came ashore before them.” Sam explained, and Arya could see little Sam’s restlessness as he babbled loudly and tugged on Gendry’s dark and slightly curled hair. 

“You don’t seem surprised at my current state, Sam?” Arya joked lightly.

He shifted somewhat uncomfortably on his feet, “Well...actually I’m not.”

“How did you...Bran.” Arya realised. 

“He had a...vision.” Gilly said, looking perplexed. 

“Would you like to hold him, Arya?” Sam asked her, referring to little Jon in Gilly’s arms. 

Arya nodded and carefully took little Jon in her arms, trying to hold his little bundled up frame gently. 

“You have a knack.” Gilly said warmly, though Arya was sure she was lying, as she struggled to balance the babe with her large belly. Once she steadied the bundle, she looked down at her brothers namesake. He was sleeping soundly, his face round and his features soft. He had Gilly’s petite nose and Sam’s dark hair and moon-shaped face. 

“He’s beautiful.” Gendry said, standing behind Arya, looking at the sleeping babe.  
Arya stroked a gentle finger across his chubby cheek and whispered, “I hope your namesake arrives soon, little one.” 

“Have you heard from Jon?” Asked Sam, with hope in his round eyes.

She simply shook her head, too full of emotion to respond properly, to explain that her brother didn’t want to attend her own wedding, despite a large part of the wedding being for him, for her family. 

“There’s time yet!” He replied, ever jolly.

“Two days, Samwell. He’d best be on a quick horse.” Arya said, the words slipping out her mouth more harshly than intended. 

 

Before Sansa could scold her for her mood, she heard the sounds of movement on the pier, and turned to see Bran being pushed by Meera Reed. He looked regal, Tyrion saw to it that he dressed like a true King. He wore a smart grey doublet with silver thread embroidered in the fabric, and his hair was cut and brushed neatly to one side, different from the wild, shoulder-length locks he once had. 

He was smiling brightly, as was Meera. It was whispered that Bran had been his cold, stone-faced self in his first few weeks as King, spending most of his days warging. But when Meera Reed came to King’s Landing, he slowly returned to his old self, laughing and smiling. He spent less time in the past, and more in the present. He was slowly but surely becoming Bran again. There were also whispers that Tyrion was already attempting to plan their marriage, but Bran was barely eight and ten, so Arya doubted there’d be a wedding any time soon. 

“Bran!” Arya and Sansa both called in unison, and ran to him, Sansa beating Arya and practically chucking herself on him. Arya joined them, throwing one arm around her sister and one around Bran. The onlookers laughed at the sight, as Meera introduced herself to Gendry, and greeted Sam and Gilly.

“We’ve missed you, little brother.” Sansa said, her voice muffled in Bran’s arms. 

“Careful!” He smiled, “you’ll knock my crown off.” 

Arya stood up to look at his crown, silver and similar in style to Sansa’s, only larger and the steel was a darker shade. 

“Apologies, your Grace. Gods I can’t believe I have to say that to _both_ of you now.” Arya said over dramatically.

“How’s the morning sickness? You had it so violently at first, I worried for you.” Bran asked Arya mischievously. 

“Better thanks...wait-” 

“It’s easier if you don’t question it.” Called Meera from behind them, coming to stand with the siblings.

“Your Grace.” Gendry nodded his head respectfully at Bran. 

“Gendry.” He replied, also bowing his head. “We could have done with your rowing skills on our travels. The sea was rough.”

“Rowing skills?” Sansa questioned Gendry, who only laughed and shot a side glance to Davos. 

“How long can you stay?” Arya asked her brother, understanding he couldn’t be parted from the throne for long.

“I left the capital in the capable hands of Tyrion, I can stay just shy of a week, most likely. But I will return in a few months from now.”

“What for?” 

“The birth of my niece or nephew, of course.” Bran said as though it was obvious. 

Arya laughed, “I’ll have to keep having weddings and children so you’ll come visit more often.”

 

They travelled back to the castle together to be shown to their chambers. The party was tired from sea travel, so a large feast was arranged for the next afternoon. As they walked through the grounds, the wedding feast was being set up for two days time in the large clearing before the Godswood. 

After showing the new guests to their rooms, Sansa pulled Arya aside and said, “I have something to show you.” 

Arya followed her sister to her chambers and Gendry went with Davos to sort some seating arrangements. 

“What is it?” Arya asked, sitting on her sister’s bed when they arrived at her room.

“Well, I made something for you. It needed some adjustments so I couldn’t give it to you before. But it’s ready now.” Her sister rummaged through the large wardrobe in the room, before producing a long, white dress.

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t like it. I just wanted to make you something as I knew you wouldn’t have thought properly about what you were wearing.” Sansa babbled. Arya stood off the bed to meet her sister, her eyes on the dress. 

It was beautiful, Arya had to admit. The dress was simple and plain from afar, but the closer Arya got, the more intricate detail she noticed. The neckline was shaped in a low ‘V’, flattering but not inappropriate. The dress had no sleeves, unusual for a wedding, but Sansa knew that she liked to have her arms free of fabric, and the constant Stormlands warmth forbid full length sleeves. Instead, the fabric gathered to tiny thin shoulder straps, made of what appeared to be gold silk. The gold was not out of place, as all across the entire white silk dress Sansa had subtly embroidered small golden leaves. The stitching was so gentle and the gold thread was stitched so thinly that the shapes could barley be made out from far away. The dress simply looked like a white dress, that magically shone with a golden hue when it caught the light. But close up, Arya could trail her fingers along the shapes of weirwood leaves.

“For the North.” Sansa said softly. “So you have a piece of it with you.” 

_I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves._ Arya remembered Tom’s song from years ago. 

“Sansa,” Arya breathed, “it’s beautiful.”

“Please don’t pretend, if you don’t like it you don’t have to wear it. I made it with thin fabric so it’d be easy for you to move around in, and there’d be lots of space for your stomach, and Ravella told me that thin straps were the new style in the Reach-“

“Sansa!” Arya interrupted her sister. “I love it. I will wear it, because you made it. And because it’s beautiful. Besides, all my breeches are too tight now anyway. And...I kind of want to see Gendry’s reaction. Can we keep it a secret?” 

Her sister squealed and jumped up and down like a child before pulling Arya in for an embrace. “You’ll be the finest bride there ever was.” Sansa said. 

 

When she retired to her chambers that evening, Arya lay in bed thinking of Jon, wondering where he was. She remembered the day he gave her needle, when she was barely older than a child and he was about to leave for the wall. The sword’s sheath had been soft grey leather, and Jon drew out the blade slowly, so she could see the deep blue sheen of the steel. The sword she still carried by her side now, in a scabbard made of supple black leather. How could he leave her for the wall again? How could he ignore all the royal pardons, all the ravens? 

Gendry entered their chambers and interrupted her thoughts. 

“What’s the matter?” He asked, removing his tunic.

“How do you know something’s the matter?” 

“You were scrunching up your face, like you always do when something is bothering you.” 

“I was not.” She lied.

“You were. Like this-“ He screwed up his nose and furrowed his brows, making her chuckle. “Jon?” He asked. 

“Always Jon.”

He removed his boots and breeches, and poked the fire so it would continue to light the room. He walked the length of their room to join her in their large featherbed, and he wrapped her in his arms amongst their sheets and bed furs. 

“Bran is here, Sansa is here. The whole bloody Brotherhood is here,” he said softly, kissing her hair, “Sam and Gilly are here, Lady Smallwood, even. Davos and Marya. Hot Pie! I know you love Jon. I know he’s your favourite, even more than me-“ she swatted his chest lightly, causing him to laugh and send vibrations through the bed, shaking her, “-But...you can’t let that ruin your day. Our day. I’m sorry he isn’t here. You know I am. I wish I understood why, that I could give you the answers. But I can’t.”

“I know. I know all that.” She said, sighing into his large chest. “I still feel sad.”

“You’re allowed to feel sad. I’m glad you’re feeling sad.” 

She sat up off him slightly, giving him a quizzical look, raising one eyebrow. 

“I mean, after all your faceless training. Sometimes I still see you slip back into it. That emotionlessness. It kills me. I love seeing the old you again. When you’re belly laughing, like how you used to on the road. When you tease me with that glint in your eye. When you get teary about the babe. I love seeing your emotions, even when that emotion is sadness. Like when I found you after the Great Burning and we cried for hours. When you have nightmares, wolf dreams. Or like now. It sounds strange, but it shows you’re still in there. That you’re Arya Stark. And now, you’re Arya Stark almost all the time. But sometimes you slip back into No one.”

She thought about this for a long time, before settling back down into the crook of his arm. “Yes, but you always help me back again.” 

“I hope so.” He gave her a squeeze. 

“No squeezing. I’ll have to pee again.” 

He chuckled and began tracing circles on her bare stomach. 

“I won’t be Arya Stark for much longer.” She breathed. 

“Is that okay?”

She hadn’t thought much about what it would mean to become Arya Baratheon. She had been so worried about the wedding, worried that her brothers and sister would refuse the invitation, worried that Hot Pie wouldn’t make enough bread when he told them he was out of wheat, worried when Davos had told them some Lords and Ladies might look down on them having commoners at the feast. 

But Bran and Sansa were here now, Hot Pie had more wheat and Gendry had told Davos they didn’t want to host Lords and Ladies that wouldn’t share their meat and mead with the small folk. She hadn’t thought so much about her not being Arya Stark anymore. Was she losing her identity? She almost lost her identity to be a faceless man, and she had only just got used to being a Stark again. Was she ready to lose her Father’s name? Her House name? That she had given up so many times before? 

She sat up again and looked at her husband-to-be. A man grown of two and twenty, and handsome as the day she first met him. He had more laughter lines now, and a new little scar on his chin, mostly hidden by soft stubble. But his eyes were the same, deep blue like the ocean. Baratheon blue.

“I’ve been so many things apart from Arya Stark. Arry. Weasel. Nan. Squab. Nymeria. Cat of the Canals. Beth. Mercy. No One. I can be Arya Baratheon too.”

Gendry thought about this for a moment, his eyes distant, staring off into the dim firelight. He cleared his throat a moment later and declared, 

“You’ve only just become Arya Stark again. I don’t see why you should have to lose that.” 

“What do you mean?” She asked, cupping his cheek gently, moving his face to look at her. 

“Why don’t you keep your Stark name?” He said, matter-of-factly. “Davos told me in my history lessons that if a noblewoman marries into a less powerful noble house, she can keep her maiden name. Elia Martell was never known as Elia Targaryen.” He reasoned, showing off his new knowledge.

Arya dropped her hand from his face to his chest and considered his proposal. She could stay Arya Stark _and_ be Gendry’s wife. 

But she realised, suddenly, that just like being a wife didn’t make her less of a warrior, and being a lady didn’t make her less of a fighter, that being a Baratheon didn’t make her any less of a Stark. 

“I want to take your surname.” She said, playing with the soft curls of dark hair on his chest. 

“It’s never really felt like mine. I’ll always be a Waters, deep down.” He replied, a subtle sadness in his eyes.

“Why don’t you take my name too, as well as your new name? It can be yours as it is mine.”

“What do you mean? Like Baratheon-Stark?”

“Yes. Exactly like that.” 

He furrows his brow and mulls it over, “I like that. Has that been done before?”

Arya smiled and planted kisses on his bare chest, “I don’t think so.” 

Gendry lifted her so she was sat atop him.

“You won’t be able to lift me like that for much longer.” She said, as he sat up so she could continue to press kisses on his chest, without having to bend over him with her bump. 

“Not if you keep eating all the honey cakes and brown bread Hot Pie makes you.” He teased, a soft moan escaping his lips when her lips trailed over the tender skin on his neck. 

“Baratheon-Stark.” She whispered, her breath hot on his neck. “I like that.” 

He finds her face with his hands and pulls her to his lips. She surrenders to him, parting her lips slightly to allow his tongue to explore her mouth. Her hands tangle in his sea-salt-curled hair, and she grabs thick handfuls of it as he kisses her. His hands lower to find the small of her back, just above her buttocks, and he pulls her as close as possible with her ever-growing bump in between them. 

Gendry deepened the kiss as she worked at his small clothes, moaning into his mouth, rocking her hips onto his with a quick friction, his cock growing stiff against her.

“Arya," he groans, biting her lip softly. He gently kicks his linen shorts from around his ankles and lifts Arya by her hips so she’s hovering over him with her knees either side of his thighs. He holds her there so that his cock teases her entrance, which is already wet. He slowly lowers her onto him, their foreheads touching, and they let out a moan of pleasure and relief when their bodies met. 

“Oh!" she breathed, gasping as he pushes further into her. It’s his turn to kiss her neck, tasting her skin with his tongue. He lets her test the pace as she rocks her hips slowly, still unsure how quickly she can move with her large tummy. He loves to watch her like this, head thrown back in pleasure, eyes shut and lips swollen, a layer of sweat covering her body. Her body that looks perfectly formed in the firelight, the shadows dancing around her enlarged breasts, her swollen stomach, her toned legs. Her dark hair is stuck to her forehead, partly from the heat of the room and partly from her readiness for him to put his fingers on her sweet spot, which he knows she wants him to do. He obliges. 

Her breath hitches and hitches again, and he feels her thigh muscles start to tense.  
“Please” she moans, her eyes wild and bright. 

“I like it when you say please.” He growled, lips against the skin on her shoulders.

“Please, please, please, please.” She begged, somehow feeling strong and weak at the same time. Suddenly she’s falling apart and trembling, his name on her lips. As she comes down from her release he allows his own, watching her face glowing in the dim light, her lips slightly parted and her mouth turned up at the edges. 

She leaned down and kissed him lazily. 

“I love you, Gendry Baratheon-Stark.”

“I love you. I am yours and you are mine.”


End file.
